


your november rain could set the night on fire

by PensamientosOscuros



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: F/F, Pining, disregarding the events after 2x04, hand touching is gay now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 10:25:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15727506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PensamientosOscuros/pseuds/PensamientosOscuros
Summary: Charlotte is so used to giving, giving, giving that her body does not really feel hers sometimes, like she’s only occupying it before she lets go of it, allows it to do what needs to be done, what it’s good at before it is under her command again. However, right now as she walks towards Lady Fitz and clenches her jaw, holding all her emotions in before she puts her arms around Isabella and squeezes, tight and private and unbreakable, she understands that if her body was made for anything, it was for this.





	your november rain could set the night on fire

**Author's Note:**

> Kinda stops following canon events after 2x04, but only kinda.

**I.**  

 

The coach arrives twenty minutes after Isabella started looking out the window, her nerves betrayed by her fingers twitching in nervous anticipation on top of her knee. She hasn’t even bothered to put her regal wig on, shiny and tall and intimidating; there’s no need. There’s not many people that she’s comfortable baring herself to like this – if no person at all –, and she wonders when did it happen.

Then out goes Charlotte, gracefully stepping down from the coach, with the practice of someone who’s done it a hundred times before. Beautiful as ever in a pale blue dress, not taking a second to look up at the long row of windows, her eyes search for something with intent. Unsurprisingly, Isabella’s breath stalls when the woman finally finds her. She has to stop herself from going down into the parlor; there’s too many people to witness her eagerness, and she likes to feel guarded in these moments. Instead, she just stays by the window, holding Charlotte’s gaze until she walks out of sight and into the house. Isabella admires the determined stride she holds, and wonders if it’s typical of a harlot, or just of Charlotte.

She waits but a couple minutes before a knock comes on her door.

“Miss Charlotte Wells,” a servant’s voice announces, and there she is, glowing. Her eyes are wide and her red lips, outlined to perfection, form a small smile, the kind where Isabella can see teeth and joyous expectation.

“Thank you,” the heiress nods at the man, and he closes the door.

She’s still standing by the window, as if afraid to move closer.

“I have been waiting for a chance to see you,” Charlotte starts, her voice dripping like honey from her lips, “I was starting to think my services were no longer welcome in this household.” She’s obviously teasing, the playfulness is evident in her voice; still, something in Isabella makes her raise her chin, if only for a second. She’s sure her brother would demand her services soon enough, were she less careful.

Finally, she moves away from the curtain, barely getting any closer to the younger woman. There’s a tension in the air, as if her unspoken infatuation was physically manifesting inside the room, and she longs for it to go away. She will _not_ spoil these matters with mundane desires.

Truthfully, she isn’t ashamed to admit the drive to ruin Lydia Quigley she has been gathering these past weeks has been motivated by Charlotte Wells, and Charlotte Wells alone. Before her incursion in her uneventful life, Isabella experienced limited emotions, all of them controlled and dosed by her brother like a man keeps a wild animal caged, docile with poison. However, it was proving to be difficult to keep her _secret_ – both of them – from him. Harcourt, always his reserved but intrusive self, had made a point to remark how it was the courtesan’s fault that promising Sir George Howard had succumbed to an early demise – _whomever trusts a harlot, my dear, gets what’s coming to them –,_ and Isabella had stayed quiet. There was no point in raising his suspicions, as she was barely managing to keep him off her business for now. The guilt – and a newfound feeling of ardent hatred – had gnawed away at her the entire night.

“It is not your services that I require, but your intellect.”

Charlotte nods modestly, reading the truth under the heiress’s words, and deciding not to press further, like all those months ago when she first appeared in her home uninvited. The younger woman knows full well that being in the Blayne estate entails not only discretion, but great amounts of planning beforehand on Lady Fitzwilliam’s part, so she doesn’t hold her visible tenseness against her.

“Let’s get straight to the matter then, Lady Fitz.”

“I have been meaning to summon you before, but I am afraid my dear brother’s scarce escapades have rendered me lonely.” Charlotte doesn’t miss the paradigm of Lady Fitz being lonely _because_ of her brother’s presence, and her heart, not so long ago immutable to the dismays of people from Isabella’s standing, tightens in her chest.

The lady goes to sit on the edge of her bed, and her big blue eyes are expressive enough for Charlotte to know she can sit beside her. For Isabella’s sake, she smiles and complies.

“I know Mrs. Quigley has kept you under her close command lately, mainly due to our encounters. I see how she could see an issue in them, and I apologize.” Isabella is looking into Charlotte’s unwavering eyes, so similar to her own, pushing truth into every word she utters. If nothing else, she wants Charlotte to know she’s honest. Always. “However, we’re running out of time. Every day that passes she grows more confident in her ways, shamelessly asking feats of me that I cannot possibly accomplish.”

Charlotte knows she not only means the relentless flow of money Quigley demands. Still, she knows that’s not all that bothers the woman. “Is it only the money that worries you?”

Isabella turns her head away, her lips turning downwards in the pout of someone used to not getting her way and doing nothing about it. Her posture never wavers.

“I _despise_ the control she holds over me. When I’m here, my brother holds my very existence like I’m a toy to be played with, and when in public, she stands above me like a shadow, dark like tar. If I could face no consequences, and I wasn’t retained here…” she stops abruptly and inhales, embarrassed that she has laid her vulnerabilities so plainly in front of someone else. Charlotte hesitates, but before she can second-guess herself she’s extended her hand, squeezing Lady Fitz’s delicate wrist. The woman only looks at their hands, before smiling timidly. “It seems to me I always require comfort when in your presence. I can’t imagine it to be pleasant, nor fair.”

Charlotte chuckles at that. “Nonsense. You should know what other people ask of me when they share my time.”

Isabella looks at her then, intense and deep like a sea waiting for a storm to gather, and places her free hand on top of the woman’s. She glides her thumb over the deliciously soft skin, so different from Harcourt’s, so delightfully _new_ to her senses, and the words seem to escape her. Her heart is beating fast, and she can feel her fingers tightening. “I would _never_ ask that of you. Any of it.”

The sincerity behind her words shouldn’t baffle Charlotte, not after the almost suicidal ways in which Lady Isabella has sacrificed herself for _her,_ but it does _._ Her mind goes back to the time when a plan to liberate a young, innocent girl from Lydia Quigley almost cost Isabella her own – albeit limited – liberty. The memory is as fresh as the shiver running down her spine thinking about Lord Fitzwilliam almost catching on, almost discovering her plan, almost ruining everything…

“I know, Lady Fitz.” A light rain has starting falling outside, and the raindrops tap on the big windows rhythmically; it’s as soothing as it is grounding. She has half a mind to tell Lady Fitz that her voice has the same effect on her as the water falling from the skies, an intrusive thought that she decides to keep and nurture like a child. She will guard this secret clear from Lydia Quigley. “I don’t know if it will be any use to you, but Mrs. Quigley has lately been frequenting the Lord Chief Justice’s chamber more often than not. I ignore the trails and branches that compose your inner circle, but surely someone holds enough power to have him removed off his position for unlawful affairs with a bawd. I myself would serve as a witness, if the circumstances required it.”

The lady’s face morphs into a mask of wariness. “I greatly doubt we could get anyone with such power on our side. Unlike Mrs. Quigley, I do not hold anyone’s secrets over their heads, and money will not be of use.” She releases Charlotte’s hand, moving to sweep her dress free of wrinkles, now visibly nervous. “Nevertheless, I will try to find a way, _that_ I can promise.”

“I didn’t take you for someone with a faint will, Lady Fitz.”

“Oh, don’t be absurd, Miss Wells. I am too old for such statements towards my person.”

Charlotte smiles, genuinely gleeful when she sees a small smile stretch Isabella’s own lips. She’s hardly he mother’s age, if not younger, but she sees some of Margaret’s courage in her. She is grateful that amongst the lies and deceit she plays daily in Lydia Quigley’s home, she still has women she _does_ admire.

 

**II.**

 

“Have you ever fancied a cull?”

Charlotte turns to look at her sister, whose expression hasn’t changed in spite of her strange question. They’re walking through Soho Square on a regular Tuesday morning, listening to the familiar hustle and bustle that has always marked their lives in the busy capital. They have not spent much time together recently, between Lord Fallon’s contract and Charlotte’s new positioning at Quigley’s house, so she cherishes every moment they have. They look richer than they are walking arm in arm amongst all the misery.

“Wasn’t expecting that from you. Perhaps something more similar to ‘ _have you ever thought about bludgeoning a cull over the head with a chamber pot’?”_ She awaits for Lucy’s reaction, realizing too late that it might hit too close to home, but Lucy only rolls her eyes and nudges her a bit. They walk past the old fruit stand from where they occasionally got the lucky apple if Margaret was feeling generous, and nod hello to the woman behind it.

“I mean it. I haven’t always had the best luck at ma’s, I’ve always felt like I didn’t fit in…” Charlotte squeezes her forearm, feeling sorry for her sister’s sealed fate, just like hers. “But now that things are looking up, I’m curious.”

“Is this about Lord Fallon?” Charlotte teases, already knowing the answer.

Lucy is thoughtful for a second. “Yes. I don’t mind being with him, sharing time with him, and that has never happened before. I think he sees through me, who I really am and who I could be.” Charlotte’s mind flits to Isabella for a second at her sister’s words, long enough to recognize the intrusion but short enough not to dwell on it.

“You are sharing your _body_ with him,” the eldest emphasizes. “Lucy, the biggest mistake you can make is think that they care about anything other than their cocks. They don’t come to us looking for love or companionship, they only fuck us and go back to their families and wealth. You need to remember that no matter how nice or smart they are.”

The younger Wells understands, she _does,_ but the fact that she has loathed every single cull, vomited after every encounter until Lord Fallon came to her feels like a revelation, as if everything she has been through was to pave the path for Fallon and his sweet words and exhilarating actions. She sees her sister, all self-assuredness and confidence, and it is difficult to see her as anything other than _perfect._ She cannot compete, and deep down, she’s not quite sure that Charlotte, as much as she loves her, can relate.

“What about that Lady you see on the regular lately?” Lucy asks, moving on. The change in topic feels feeble, but Charlotte takes it regardless. Is she that transparent?

Not looking at Lucy, she continues walking as if nothing. “What about her? She’s a Marchioness, or would be, if it weren’t for her abominable brother.”

Lucy looks positively intrigued now. “The Marquess of Blayne?” Charlotte nods with a grimace. Then, Lucy continues. “I’ve met him a couple times, he visits Lord Fallon at his estate every few days. I haven’t really talked to him properly, but he seems like a fine man.”

The snort that leaves Charlotte is almost grotesque. “My dear Lucy, rule number two to remember: _always_ trust what a woman tells you about a man. He is a monster in disguise, and Lady Fitzwilliam is a saint for even putting up with him.”

“Ah, so that’s what she is?” The suggestiveness in her voice isn’t lost on Charlotte.

Smiling in spite of herself, the older sister rolls her eyes before asking, “Is there anything you wish to say?”

Lucy’s vibrant laughter is like a balsam for Charlotte’s soul. “Nothing that you don’t wish to admit, my dearest, charming, succulent sister! I never expected you to fall for the charms of a female cull, that’s all.”

Charlotte lets out a mock horrified gasp, before they burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. “Bold of you, little brazen witch, to make fun of the people I dally with. I will let you know that she is a proper lady, and most definitely _not_ a cull.”

“That’s alright, Miss Charlotte of _Blayne._ ”

Their joyful laughs and playful banter gets swallowed by the noise in the air as they walk back, arm in arm, before they must part ways and Charlotte has to depart for her new home in Golden Square.

 

**III.**

It’s the first masquerade of the season, the people mingling in the Pleasure Gardens not paying a modicum of attention to the etiquette they so proudly boast about the rest of the year. Lydia, of course, takes clever advantage.

“Girls,” she drawls, barely bothering to look at the young women, “you know what to do.”

Charlotte is, despite her best judgment, in awe of Lydia’s command of other people, and _hates_ that, amongst all the lies, she does aspire to resemble her in some aspects. They have the same kind of naked ambition that makes them dangerous; she’s sure that’s partly why Lydia completely dotes on her, and not just her charisma with men.

“Charlotte, my dear,” Dame Death calls her closer and looks at her with unwavering intensity, “make sure you’re still in our Lord’s good graces.” Then, looking from side to side as if she were conspiring, she adds in a whisper, “We need him.”

She tries not to snarl at his title. “Of course, Mrs. Quigley. I have kept him interested up until now, have I not?” She adds a good-natured laugh for good measure before she turns around, ready to find her mark. She feels Lydia’s knowing eyes watching her.

It takes her ten minutes to spot the beautiful golden dress, elevated by flushed cheeks and a white rose. Lady Fitz looks jubilant, so different from the subjugated woman Charlotte has come to know, and as many times before, she is amazed to have found someone as adept at pretending as she is.

_You’ll learn to be the queen of pretend, like me._

“Am I not worth a second rose this evening?”

Isabella turns at the sound of her voice, surprised, and her resulting smile is incandescent. “I did not think another would be necessary, as you know better than to not greet me now.” She hasn’t stopped looking at Charlotte with those sparkling eyes even surrounded by her tight-knit circle, so the younger woman assumes she’s had more than a glass of wine to account for.

“I would never pass by the brightest star in the sky without a greeting.” Not a second has passed, when Charlotte remembers what she came to do. “Care for a walk, my Lady?”

Isabella looks caught off guard, but she is quickly overcome with relief. The young woman itches to extend her hand at take the Lady’s, but she knows better. Not when Harcourt’s friends are watching.

“Of course. If you’ll excuse me,” Lady Fitz addresses no one in particular at the table – they are her jailers of sorts, accomplices to her brother’s obsession –, and stands in a fluid motion, her eyes never leaving the woman.

There’s loud music being played at every corner of the fountains, people breaking into boisterous laughter and sordid screams of lust all around them, but Isabella’s gentle voice is the clearest sound in the night. “What sends London’s golden girl towards a simple Lady’s path tonight?”

The harlot smiles, glad that the alcohol has made Lady Fitz more affable than she usually is in public. “Would you believe me if I said fate?” They keep a slow pace along the water, passing by people Charlotte wouldn’t want to ignore in any other occasion.

“Fate? I’m afraid she abandoned me to my luck long ago. Lydia Quigley might be a more accurate guess, perhaps?” There’s a lightness in her tone that delates she’s not angry, just resigned, and Charlotte nods.

“You’re partly right. She is the reason I’m at the gardens tonight. However, it is because of you that I’m standing here, right now.” Charlotte isn’t planning on being covert tonight, not when she knows she will end the night in Lord Fitzwilliam’s rooms, holding back nausea and a deep, unsurmountable revulsion. Fortunately, he won’t be at the gardens in another hour, and she’s relieved he won’t be interrupting her time with Isabella like every time before. “I couldn’t possibly stay away from you, now, could I?”

Isabella looks at her curiously, unable to mask the way in which those words bring a blush to her cheeks. They are approaching the palace, their stride slow but steady, and the Lady laces their arms together as a conquest of the last barrier. Her chest swells with pride that she’s in this moment, untouched by Harcourt’s vile presence, by the stench of his possessiveness and his ever-looming control over her.

“You flatter me, Miss Wells, but surely, that is not all.” Then, she lowers her voice, “If this has anything to do with Mrs. Quigley, please, tell me now, and we will go somewhere private.”

Charlotte doesn’t hesitate.

“Show me to your rooms, then.”

They arrive in no time to a room worth her mother’s brothel, profoundly cared for but visibly unused. Despite the similarities in design to Harcourt’s own room, there’s an undoubtedly feminine ambience to it, and Lady Isabella’s pervasive scent makes her feel less out of place. There’s something underlying in the room, something juvenile, as if the untouched bed and the hanging frills belonged to a child.

“This is not your room,” Charlotte says, and the soft smile Isabella gives her in return feels like a gift.

“No, but I’m afraid my brother wouldn’t have made it easy for me to go into my own rooms with any type of company.” There’s resigned discomfort in her voice, and not for the first time, Charlotte thinks about that monster of a man removing any vestige of agency from his own sister. “I like to come here to gather my thoughts, sometimes.” She looks around the room longingly before turning to the younger woman. “And well?”

Charlotte catches herself staring at Isabella’s regal profile, only breaking free when she meets her eyes. She clears her throat. “I have written proof that Mrs. Quigley has been colluding with some influential men to bring Justice Hunt down.” Lady Fitz’s face briefly betrays her surprise, before she tames her expression.

“What kind of proof?”

“I intercepted a letter she sent to Lord Fallon.” She recalls the day before, when her sister’s hushed words, _I think Lord Fallon is attempting to bring down Justice Hunt and ma with him, all because of Quigley_ made an idea form in her head, before Lucy handed her an unsealed letter, her frantic eyes, red-rimmed and betrayed, begging for a solution. “We would simply have to put them in evidence, and…testify against them.”

Isabella’s stomach drops. Testify. Against her brother’s wishes.

Her eyes are wide and disbelieving when the harlot pulls out the letter from a crevice in her dress, and they grow hopeful as she finishes reading the missive. She stares at Charlotte, her flushed cheeks even more pronounced by the rush the sudden news have given her. “Would you go forward with this? Are you aware of the implications?”

The young woman is touched by the concern she hears, and it mixes with the relief of finally having found something to hold against the demon she’s loathed ever since she had use of reason. “I wouldn’t have brought it up otherwise. Besides, as I told you, this entire farce is only to bring Lydia Quigley down, where she belongs.” She’s determined, but now that it’s all in the open – the imminent betrayal, the possible backlash and the jeopardizing of Lucy’s future under Lord Fallon’s protection –, she feels like she needs a drink.

“What about you, Lady Fitz?” She has to ask the question, _needs_ to know just how she will stay afloat, keeping herself safe from Lydia, from her brother, from the world. “How will you fare?” The older woman looks at her curiously, and the softness in her eyes makes Charlotte crave her, more than ever. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you putting yourself in danger for this. We can find another way.”

Isabella’s disbelieving chuckle catches Charlotte off guard. The woman is positively drunk off her expectations. “There is _nothing_ that woman could take from me anymore.” Then she stops, eyes fixated on Charlotte’s gentle face, so concerned and full of emotion, so unlike any other face she’s ever seen. “As long as you’re okay, she can’t hurt me. Not anymore.”

Charlotte is so overwhelmed by emotion that she can only exhale shakily before nodding, as if accepting a silent responsibility. It’s been long since she’s let herself _feel_ to this extent, before Daniel and before a trail of culls sealed her heart shut like innumerable pieces of metal welded together. For the first time, it feels like Isabella might know what to do, like she could pry open the iron carcass with her bare hands.

Charlotte is so used to giving, giving, giving that her body does not really feel _hers_ sometimes, like she’s only occupying it before she lets go of it, allows it to do what needs to be done, what it’s good at before it is under her command again. However, right now as she walks towards Lady Fitz and clenches her jaw, holding all her emotions in before she puts her arms around Isabella and _squeezes_ , tight and private and unbreakable, she understands that if her body was made for anything, it was for _this._

She doesn’t cry often – or at least, not where others’ eyes can witness –, but at this point there is little holding the dam inside her. She cries for her mother, poisoned by Lydia’s venom since she was a child but still so, so good in spite of everything, cries for her sister, sullied with blood and lying with a murderer, cries for Isabella, so tender and honest, so eager to please, longing for freedom so wildly that she’s about to risk everything, even cries for Nancy and the love she sees in her eyes that she will never speak about. Isabella holds her tight, not hesitating for a second before she places her hand in the back of Charlotte’s head and cradles it against her neck with the softness of someone who holds too much pain inside.

“Sweet child,” she speaks softly, her breath hot against Charlotte’s temple while her hands keep the girl from breaking like a puzzle, “my dear. It’s alright, you’re alright.” It is not easy to stand close with their pompous skirts and high wigs, but Lady Fitz doesn’t show discomfort for a second, instead offering her unwavering support to a woman who has not bobbled once in the time she has known her.

After a couple minutes Charlotte finds it in herself to pull back, and Isabella’s heart melts at the undoubtedly ruined face in front of her. When have red-rimmed eyes, tear tracks and a leaking nose become anything to admire?

The taller woman smiles at the sight, and reaching for a table nearby, she offers Charlotte a handkerchief. The young woman accepts it and wipes at her nose and under her eyes, until she looks mostly put together again. By now they’ve gained some distance, but Charlotte still seeks her warmth, if only for a bit longer.

“Thank you,” she whispers, not one to feel shame, and she tries to fold the handkerchief before giving it back, when something catches her eye. On the corner of the immaculate silk, there are three letters, adorned by golden thread.

_S.I.F._

Those initials belong neither to Isabella nor her brother, as far as she knows. Lost in the discovery, she thumbs the fabric, feeling the imperceptible ridge of the lettering. Isabella’s horrified grimace makes her instantly regret her actions. “My apologies, Lady Fitz. Had I known this belonged to someone…”

“It is no one’s but mine,” comes the rushed response, the Lady’s face already a calmer mask, “Worry not. Are you feeling better?”

Charlotte nods, unconvinced, mutters a weak _yeah_ and lets the moment pass, handing her the cloth. Their hands touch for a second, and the younger woman let her fingers linger on the skin before falling away from Isabella’s hand.

Isabella’s face is pure worry once again, darkened by the imminent arrival of her worst enemy. The young woman, observant as she is, knows what is coming before she hears it.

“I’m afraid my bother will be here soon, and it would not be wise to let him see us.” Charlotte catches the implication behind her words, _not together, not when he already suspects something, not when he’s not entirely wrong,_ and with a resigned sigh, she steps away, putting distance between them.

“Mrs. Quigley has asked me to get in contact with him again.” She dares not say aloud what she really means, but it is not necessary anyway by the way in which Isabella’s face crumbles. “The mere idea of what I have to do repulses me, please, believe me,” She sounds almost desperate in her haste to make the woman comprehend, remembering times when her words of distaste regarding her profession hurt like crystals on her skin. “But I couldn’t jeopardize the plan. I can’t cross Lydia, not now, and I need the leverage…”

Isabella reaches up, and in an unseen show of boldness, she cups Charlotte’s cheek, still flushed from tears. The gentleness in the Lady’s eyes help set Charlotte’s mind at ease for the first time tonight. “You must do whatever you need, my dear. I am aware of my past behavior, and I apologize for my crassness, of which you have always been undeserving.” The younger woman can almost feel the sincerity on her skin, and she lifts her hand, resting it atop Isabella’s as if to make it a reality.

“Thank you.” The harlot smiles, a bit shaky still, and before she can put her thoughts in order she turns her head, kissing Isabella’s immaculate palm. Her eyes close for an instant, but she can still catch the rush of color spreading from a porcelain chest to raised cheeks. The woman is staring, mesmerized.

Finally, Charlotte inhales deeply and starts walking to the door, still hand in hand with a speechless Lady Fitz trailing behind her. She smiles at the heiress, feeling fresh again, invigorated by her company.

“Shall we go back?”

 

  **IV.**

 

A week later, they have no time to execute the plan before Charlotte, carried away by hatred and revulsion, almost kills Lydia Quigley in her own home.

Now she’s safe in Greek Street again, sitting by Isabella’s side, and her throat closes in horror at the revelations coming, one by one, like pulling shards from a wound. She hates the feeling of helplessness similar to that when she thinks of her twelve year old self, used by a wealthy beast, when she thinks of her sister, abused by Howard’s insensitive ego, and now, when she thinks of Isabella. Rage builds inside of her when Isabella tells her about her daughter, somewhere in Chelsea where Harcourt ignores her existence, and only the utmost tenderness she feels for Isabella stops her from seeking the monster and slashing his throat like a pig.

She should have killed Lydia when she had the chance.

Once her anger has been simmered down by the Lady’s reassurance, she’s appalled when she must let her go. The pull in her core has a center, and the mere idea of Lady Fitz going back to that damned house makes her fists clench.

“Please, stay the night.” Her words surprise even herself, as she knows how great a risk Isabella has made to even visit her on this night, but the beating of her heart is intense enough that she feels she will faint if she lets her go.

Isabella’s eyes are wide open, surprised by Charlotte’s bold invitation, especially after the unravelling of her darkest secrets, of her sins and damnations. She would like nothing more than to stay, but she’s afraid, terrified of the consequences.

“My sweet angel, I would stay here every day of my life if I could, but the danger is too great. I am at risk just by daring to come here tonight.” Her words bear no lies, and Charlotte takes her hand, puts it against her own chest, and looks at her like she’s the moon in the sky. The Lady stares, mouth parted, silenced.

“Don’t you feel it here? The pain it brings me to even conceive you in that house, at his mercy, alone?” Her voice is firm as ever, even if her lips are trembling. She scoots closer on the futon, her dresses pressing against the Lady’s, her eyes looking down at Isabella’s untouched mouth, not bearing the intensity of the blue above. She presses Isabella’s hand even harder against herself. “If something were to happen to you I would go mad, don’t you see?”

Her nose brushes Isabella’s when she looks up, almost cross-eyed in her need to make her _see_ just how honest she is, and the tears threatening to spill from the heiress’ eyes do nothing to spoil her beauty. Isabella’s breath is sweet and it comes steady, and before she knows it, Charlotte takes it in her mouth, takes her whole.

Her lips barely move above the woman’s, they’re as gentle as a feather’s touch, and still the fire inside her feels like it will consume her, come out through her mouth and scorch Isabella, fuse them together. The hand at her chest curls at the sensation, and the soft tingle of a caress makes her go deeper, further, longer. Her gentleness soon turns into something else, a hunger she will not quell, a thirst she won’t quench. The Lady’s body surges forward, putting weight behind her kiss and sliding her hand from Charlotte’s chest to her shoulder, where it hesitates before coming to rest on the back of her neck, holding her there as if she _ever_ wanted to leave.

When they part, there is not enough space in the room for the tension they have built.

“I must leave now.” Isabella’s words are labored, but her hand is slow and gentle, playing with the rogue hairs at Charlotte’s nape.

The younger woman closes her eyes and nods, her defeat made infinitely sweeter by their kiss. When she looks up again, the sight of Isabella’s flushed cheeks and her lips, swollen and red with the help of her own mouth, makes her heart tumble.

“Promise me I will see you soon.” There’s a quiet desperation that she masks well, and she leans forward to steal another kiss, just because she can.

“If you don’t stop, I cannot promise that I will leave.” There’s humor in her voice, but the seriousness behind it – _my brother will do terrible things if I don’t go back_ – is clear.

They stand together and, with one last, lingering kiss, the Lady parts.

That night, Charlotte doesn’t sleep a wink.

 

**V.**

 

Everything unfolds sudden and violently. Lord Fallon, in an induced state of hysteria, stabs Lord Fitzwilliam with a dagger, the same one used in the slashing of Kitty Carter’s neck months ago. Lord Fitzwilliam survives, if only hanging by a thread. When Lord Fallon, desperate for his fast-escaping freedom, accuses Lydia Quigley of poisoning him when he wasn’t of use to her anymore, the Lord Chief Justice is forced to remain ruthless in his sentence, even if it implies going against his mistress.

Charlotte awaits in Greek Street, pacing nervously with Margaret and Nancy by her side, waiting for Lucy to return from the Fallon estate. The moment the coach appears through the window the three women waste no time getting out, and Lucy doesn’t wait for the coach to stop before she’s out, jumping into Margaret’s arms and crying like a child, like the child she _is._

Charlotte feels like she hasn’t taken a breath since her pa told her the news, _Lord Fitzwilliam, your ladyship’s brother, has been stabbed in Lord Fallon’s house. We know nothing from Lucy yet._ Seeing Lucy in her mother’s arms gives her more relief than she ever thought was possible.

They spend the afternoon together, tending to Lucy and calming her down, assuring her that everything will be okay. Lucy nods through the tears as if she knows it will be.

It’s later that night, right before closing time, that finds Lucy lying with her head on her sister’s lap, spent physical and emotionally. The house is quiet, and Nancy brought them tea a few minutes ago, leaving it to cool on the windowsill.

“What’s on your mind?” Charlotte asks, running her fingers through her dirty blonde hair, like Margaret used to do not so long ago.

“Lord Fallon.” Her voice is thick, but her face doesn’t betray any emotion. “How he went crazy, how his eyes looked like the Devil’s, red in his own blood, before he slashed Lord Fitzwilliam.”

Charlotte shushes her. “It’s alright now, you’re safe. Lydia is going to pay dearly for what she’s done, to all of us.” Her mind flits to the infamous pair of shoes, to her mother abused as a child, to Mary Cooper’s putrid corpse, to Isabella imprisoned by her own secrets, and she feels no sympathy for the woman she once admired.

Lucy is hesitant with her next words, but when they come, she’s not afraid. “But it wasn’t Lydia who did it. It was me.”

Charlotte’s hand halts.

Lucy takes it as her cue to continue. “After I read the letter, he kept trying to put me against ma in every possible way, he would not even let me come home without telling him. I don’t think he suspected anything, but one of the times Lord Fitzwilliam came to visit, I overheard them speak. The matter was not clear to me, but after what you told me, about his sister, I put the pieces together.” She pauses to collect her thoughts, and Charlotte remains paralyzed, her heart barely moving inside her chest. “Lord Fitzwilliam asked for a venom, something he could give his sister that would keep her alive, but quelling her rebelliousness, removing her of her will.” _I am at risk just by daring to come here tonight._ “I didn’t know what to do, Lord Fitzwilliam would be there soon and I had found the vial in Fallon’s dresser. I honestly thought…” Her words are lodged in her throat for a second, but her sister’s encouraging hand on her shoulder aids her. “I thought it would kill him. I thought it would be the best that could happen, so I mixed some of the drugs he gave me before with the liquid, and then put it in his drink during supper.” The rest is history.

Charlotte can imagine the rest: the drugs and the vial mixing caused some kind of counter-effect, making Lord Fallon hyper aggressive, disoriented even, losing his grasp on reality. She fears what could have been, what he could’ve done to Lucy that was done to Harcourt instead, how she and her parents and Nancy could be at his estate right now, picking up her corpse as lifeless as Kitty’s, and she feels like crying. Then she thinks of Isabella, almost succumbing to a fate as unfair and undignified as her brother had made her life, and the pull in her chest hurts in its power.

“Lucy, you…” the younger girl turns to look at her with glassy eyes, waiting for a reprimand, a betrayal, an accusation, but is only met with understanding. “You did _nothing_ wrong. You did what none of us could, and for that I will commend you _forever._ I only wish you had shared your plan with us, because just the thought of it going badly is terrifying.” She’s overwhelmed by gratitude and relief, knowing what could have been, and her sister sits up, wiping at her cheeks before throwing herself onto Charlotte, hugging her, recomposing the parts of her that broke.

“Thank you. I love you. I love you.”

“I love you too, Lucy. So much.”

 

 **VI.**  

 

Later that night, Charlotte knocks on the Fitzwilliams’ door.

“Miss Charlotte Wells, here to see the Lady of the house.” This time, there is no Lord holding a title over her.

Two minutes later she’s opening the bedroom door herself, and the sight of a disheveled, unprepared Isabella soothes her eyes in a way no medicine could.

“Charlotte…” Is all she has time to say before the harlot crosses the room in three strides and pulls her head down low enough to kiss her. Even without her heels, Isabella towers quite a bit over Charlotte’s more petite frame, and she willfully leans down, responding instantly. When they part, the glow of happiness on both their faces tells them they are both aware of the news.

“How are you feeling, Lady _Marchioness of Blayne?_ ” The giggle bubbles inside Charlotte’s chest and sprouts against Isabella’s lips. The older woman’s smile dims respectfully in spite of her jubilance.

“I am not yet holder of that title, I’m afraid.”

The younger woman doesn’t allow her to dwell on the thought before kissing her again; she can barely contain her joy.

“According to Justice Hunt, the wounds Lord Fallon inflicted were of the ‘utmost severity’. You are _free_ , Isabella. Free to reclaim your liberty, your title, your fortune, your daughter! Lydia will pay for her misdeeds as well and she will rot in hell, along with your brother.”

The words seem to finally sink in, and the slow smile spreading on the heiress’ lips is accompanied by unshed tears that always seem ready to escape. She lifts her hand and places it on Charlotte’s cheek like she did so many moons ago, but now she knows what she wants to take, and is delighted to find that she _can_ take whatever she wants for the first time, after everything she has given.

“Will you stay with me?” She asks Charlotte, _will you stay forever?_ And the Wells girl’s grin almost splits her face because she _understands,_ and she would rather die a hundred painful deaths than miss out on her offer. For now though, she will stay the night, drawing sounds out of her that could put the most perfect symphony to shame.

“How could I say no to the Lady of the house?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about British titles, British slang, or anything British in general, so sorry for everything I butchered.
> 
> Drop by my tumblr @marinaandthejulyberries to freak out over these two


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